


The Unassailable Hunger

by VioletVerbosity



Category: Kirby (Video Games)
Genre: Deliberate Bad Art, Deliberate Bad Fic, Gen, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3625659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletVerbosity/pseuds/VioletVerbosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As everyone knows, literature is the only true art, so I have created this visual piece from the words of the text:</p><p>
  <img/>
</p></blockquote>





	The Unassailable Hunger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ishiphappy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishiphappy/gifts).



Rotund and rosaceas, the apocryphal being known as Kirby trudged across the barren desert, the howling wind of his hunger buffeting the inner-most recesses of his soul. He wanted, needed, _ached_ for nourishment; it was a mewling cry of desperation that rose up from the depths of his gut to soar over the endless wasted sands. Where was the manna from heaven, the communal wafer, the unleavened sweetbread? The emptiness in his belly curled in on itself, like a solid husk of solitude, its gnawing teeth his constant companion.

How was he to bear this? And yet he must, and he did, enduring the salve of bullets fired from within by clinging resoundingly to this one simple thought: _I am alive_. He thought, and thus he was. And such things he thought! Why, if only he could have built a castle from them, such great thoughts as they were, and then lived in that castle as a benevolent ruler, his asperity bestowed daily upon an ever-revolving carousel of staff, who would bring platters and platters of the most moribund morsels, which he would ingest in opaque fashion, each one dancing its unique veridian taste across his tongue, then slipping down at last to fill his gaping digestive gland. If only! The effluent thought provided some relief, and yet not enough.

Still, he continued to pick up his feet, limbs overtaxed and liturgical, but not letting his concentration lapse even an ion. Still, he sought that true oasis, that soothing gehenna, the autodidactic acromion that called to him yet. Its noise rang loud like a clavicle, a colonial leitmotif that played and replayed across his inner ear. It pulled him forward, a chitinous drive he could not ignore. Nor did he wish to. It was his most mordant acuity.

Yet he tired of this featureless landscape. Its assonant texture upon his weary feet was like a constant itch upon his soul. The pyrrhic value of it tormented him, and he diffused it. But as he weighed on, he began to think on the works of Descartes. Perhaps there was some relevant idea there. Perhaps he should not be so peripatetic, and instead embrace the lacuna of metabolic simulacrum. Yes. Yes!

He knew now what he must do. Kirby summoned all his osseous prosody, opened wide his vestibular maw, and began to inhale. In and in he sucked, aiming at the vermilion grains below him, and soon they began to follow. He did not stop, his spiracles working at maximum to interpolate this goal, striving ever more as the diaphanous weft flowed into him, filled him. It was working! At last, such amandine succour! His hunger began to abate, each tiny circadian fleck another shard off the mountain of his lust. 

It was an eidolon of jubilation. As the antiphonal muscadine soothed his apostolic lamella, he felt a certain syzygy seep into his emptiness - a gradual relinquishing of umber and pectin, all the more prodigious for its metonymy. The sensation was incendiary, and much needed, and he gave into it whole-auxiliary. As he continued with his villanelle, it filled and filled him, and his cheeks began to swell with jurassic pride as his stomach torsion expanded. He sought the apex, grasping the liminal quince with one squamous paw, and in one final cadence of polarity, it was done.

Kirby had ingested the whole desert. He was satisfied.

And dry.

**Author's Note:**

> As everyone knows, literature is the only true art, so I have created this visual piece from the words of the text:


End file.
